Excerpts from “THE CREATION: An alternative history”
Liberation
August 20, 1871, Marylebone
My father scolded. He said: “Maryanne,
You cannot publish. You are not a man.”
Why must we hide ourselves behind a mask,
When we pursue our God-appointed task?
Why must the bounties that our minds disgorge
Require a male protector? (Mine was “George.”)
What of the tactic that saved Jane from shame:
Simply refusing to attach a name,
For otherwise the critics would deride—
In prejudice, accusing her of pride?
Six times she overcame the same dilemma,
Using devices worthy of her Emma.
And Charlotte also … Isn’t it unfair
That she should not be honored for Jane Eyre?
Nor Emily, who offers rich delights,
Inviting us to Wuther on the Heights?
Should I release my own madwoman scream?
Better instead to contemplate my dream—
Titles engraved in a triumphal arch,
And, at the apex? … maybe?? … Middlemarch?
But while I wait, there is no need to grovel
Till some man writes a better English novel.
That will occur, and agitate the Prissies,
When Jimmy Joyce delivers his Ulysses.
Yet, in the aftermath, men must atone,
Let Ginny have a room that’s all her own.
What work of Dickens or of Thackeray
Can stand compare with Mrs. Dalloway?
Post-war male writers must be meek and quiet,
Acknowledging the gifts of A.S. Byatt.
They’ll need to find a shield to hide beneath,
When Zadie Smith arrives and bares her teeth.
The humble ones will find much to enjoy
And learn from, reading Arundhati Roy.
They’re well advised to make their orisons,
Chanting from books of Tony Morrison’s.
Their feeble contributions won’t be missed
By readers of the female novelist.
It is her era. Men must now be taught:
In literature, as it is in sport,
The male declines. They’ll find the jig is up
When England’s women win their second cup.
The Soldier’s Lot …
October 16, 1066, near Hastings
A military life’s not to my liking:
First we must trudge up North to fight the Viking.
Following that, a smaller army slogs
Back to the South to battle with the Frogs.
Shagged out from warfare, running short of grub,
We have to march for miles to find a pub.
If we can trust the (mainstream) Daily Saxon,
Our trip’s like one our fathers broke their backs on,
Hauling that Scottish stone through years of pain
To build that silly henge on Sarum plain.
But, after accidents and long delay,
In Pevensey we found them by the bay.
The toffs on both sides talked about the site,
Deciding Battle was the place to fight.
They all agreed on changing sides each quarter.
Then we shook hands and lined up for the slaughter.
Harold’s good-hearted, something of a dope,
Who plans according to his horoscope.
He reads the tea leaves, spreads the Tarot pack—
Not the best guidance when our foes attack.
So he was watching how the birdies fly:
A Norman arrow plunked him in the eye.
And, with his exodus, resistance snapped,
Our sergeants wavered, and the ranks collapsed.
Well, never mind. They’ve brought some decent plonk.
Let’s raise a glass, and drink to Bill the Conk.
Cross Examination
October 31 4004 BCE: early afternoon
No, my sweet Eve, I do not want that apple.
Have you forgotten everything He said?
“If you eat from that tree a ton of crap’ll
come tumbling down and land upon your head.”
What do you mean? You took just one small bite?
He was explicit. One would be enough.
You think He aimed to give us both a fright?
We shouldn’t just submit?? But call His bluff???
How do you know? You learned it from a snake?
How did he demonstrate that he was wise—
By sharing things that show he’s not a fake?
Movies from when he won his Nobel Prize??
Okay, okay—there may be something to it:
it’s hard to figure out what we should do.
Perhaps you’re right—but even if you blew it,
you are my bestie, I belong with you.
… A new emotion, one I can’t define.
I understand now what the serpent meant:
I didn’t see before … your body … mine …
it’s fascinating … how they’re different …